Tag Archives: Rants

Disclaimer: This post is undoubtedly condescending. I apologize for that.

I continue to find myself completely out of touch with pop culture. It’s not something I really feel bad about, but in my own judgmental way, I wonder what is wrong with people. Nowhere does this happen more than with movies.

I recently went to see The Hangover, and while I expected not to love it, I thought it would be good for a couple laughs. After all, the populace in general seems to love it, and it was done by the same director who did Old School, which I found to be quite funny (well, the first and last acts, at least. The second act drags). More importantly, though, is that the critics tended to like it, as it scores a 73 on metacritic.com.

However, watching this movie baffled me. I wasn’t exactly baffled that people found it funny, what I found baffling is why people found it funny. The movie was made up of old jokes from a bunch of other movies of the same genre. If you’ve seen the joke before, especially if you’ve seen it hundreds of times before, how is it still funny? But there are other things that I just don’t understand why people think is funny:

A man wears a jock strap instead of underwear. Why is that funny?

A wedding band sings inappropriate things, a joke done in a bunch of other films, but also in Old School! Why is that funny?

An old man gets a check up. We see his ass. Why is that funny?

People get hit, kicked, slapped, punched, and tasered over and over again. Nothing more to the “joke” than that. Why is that funny?

While transporting a drugged tiger, the tiger wakes up behind them and destroys classic car. In Tommy Boy, same thing except it was a supposedly dead dear. It wakes up and destroys a classic car. So they repeated the same joke. Why is that funny?

Mike Tyson shows up to recover his tiger, and… and… well, there wasn’t any joke there other than Mike Tyson showed up. Why is that funny?

Of course, to some extent, I do understand why people find some of these things funny. Male nudity is apparently this generation’s man-in-a-dress. So whatever the context, people will for whatever reason find it funny. But why? That’s where they lose me.

People also like to watch things that they’re familiar with. So watching a joke play out that they’ve seen before makes it fairly easy for people to comprehend and find amusing. After all, there was an audience for Wild Hogs.

And always, from well before vaudeville, people find it amusing when characters are physically hurt.

Put all these together and you have the explanation for why people find these things funny, and why people love The Hangover. The unfortunate problem is that every one of these explanations begs the question. Why are these things funny?

So, how is it that it’s postal workers who go nuts and shoot everyone and not postal customers? I made the mistake of going to the post office today, to mail off a nearly worthless item sold on Ebay for $20 (minus $25 in Ebay, Paypal, and shipping charges), at about 4:30. Perhaps the worst time to go to the post office, but what made it worse was that it was after Thanksgiving, but before Christmas. Which means, of course, every person on the planet has to go to the post office every single day to mail off gifts to every other person on the planet.

Usually, this isn’t much of a problem since my post office has an automated postal machine. Which is great since, similar to self-checkouts in stores, most people are too afraid to give it a shot. Oh, people still do give it a shot, and I applaud them for it, but why must they try their hand at it for the first time when the store is jammed and even the line for the self-checkouts is long? And why must people line up for the individual registers, rather than standing in a single line, so that the next person gets the next available register? It’s just more efficient and fair that way. Hey, I’m talking to you, that fat guy wearing camouflage sweats. And older woman, for the love of God, the barcode is on the bottom. The BOTTOM! There you go. Now bag it. BAG IT! Oh, you’re kidding me. No, no! You cannot pay with a check at the self-checkout. Why do you even use checks anyway? Use a friggin’ check card! You’re just slowing up the process for the rest of us. And you, the meandering person who somehow ended up actually buying something which I can only assume you ran in to accidentally since you didn’t seem to have any particular destination in mind when you were single-handedly blocking the 10 foot wide aisle in front of me, the receipt pops out next to the touch screen. NEXT TO THE TOUCH SCREEN! You know, RIGHT WHERE THE MACHINE TELLS YOU THE RECEIPT IS!

Anyway, as do my trips to the post office. The self-service machine has been helpful. However, even I take awhile when using it because the programmed process is mind-numbingly awful. Perhaps the worst problem is when the machine gives you a picture of a stamp the size of bus stop ad and asks you if it will fit on the item you’re mailing. Because of problems I’ve experienced with other steps with this machine, I always assumed that if I said it wouldn’t fit it would tell me to wait in line with everyone else. I don’t usually have the time to walk to Canada to get to the end of the line, so I usually just say “yes,” and try to stick the poster-sized postage on to my envelope.

If you say no, however, as I’ve learned from my wife, it then gives you postage-sized postage. How novel. Now, call me Ishmael, but shouldn’t the machine either ask me what size I want or default to the small stamp, rather than assume I want a stamp the size of San Antonio (a place where they know what picante sauce is supposed to taste like. Not like those fellows in New York City. New York City?! (Okay, that was too random, even for me. What in the world did picante sauce have to do with postage, or even the size of San Antonio?))?

Luckily, most people don’t use this machine, even when the line for the regular service (two postal workers to handle the post office rush hour during the Christmas season) is extremely long. Today, however, there was a person at the machine. A person so evidently clueless, that she had her two young kids work the machine for her. Naturally, she also had twenty-seven packages to mail. So I did the calculation in my head, do I stand behind this single person, or do I stand behind the surprisingly short line of five people who are waiting for a surprisingly high number of three postal workers? I decided on the normal service.

It seemed like it should have been quick, but as such things always go (like what happened the last time I was at the bank and let a woman go ahead of me to use the ATM. She decided that now was the time to have her kid, a two year old, learn how to push the buttons for her), it took much longer than it should have.

The next person in line, when called up to be helped, had one of those pink slips, which means they’ll be a quick customer. All they need is a package from the back. So the postal worker went to the back, and thus began (I assume) her journey, by foot, to the post office where the package was originally dropped off. You would think that it would be more convenient to move the package from one post office to the post office closest to the recipient, but apparently the process is for a postal worker at the recipient post office to go get the package once the intended recipient comes to claim it. The postal worker went to the back, and basically never returned.

The next person in line, when called up to be helped, decided that now, and only now, was the time to consider whether or not to get delivery confirmation. How much does it cost? The postal worker didn’t know. She looked at the gigantic sign directly behind her, in full view of the customer, and determined that it would cost such-and-such depending on how she wanted the letter sent. The customer considered, considered some more, and then asked what “certified mail” meant.

I was so pleased I just had to laugh. And the postal worker searching for the missing package still hadn’t returned.

The next person in line, when called up to be helped by the third and final postal worker, started off very simply. She just needed five hundred thousand stamps of a variety only available by all the local postal workers being called in to personally color them on stickers with crayons. Or rather, she just needed an amazing amount of a particular type of stamp that was not readily available at the counter.

It was about this time when the package-searching postal worker decided to organize a search party of all available postal employees. In every state. It was a very long process to call everyone, but she made it more efficient by creating a calling tree.

The postal worker, with the customer deciding on whether or not to use delivery confirmation, explained to the customer, in the most unclear language ever, what exactly certified mail was. The customer nodded, and again asked what the price was. The worker told the customer that it would be about $4 with the confirmation, and less than $1 with first class mail and no confirmation. The customer responded with “oh, let’s just do it.” Sadly, I knew that the customer meant first class without confirmation, and also knew that the postal worker assumed that the customer meant the certified mail. I wanted to call out, but alas, it’s a government building, and as such, might be considered a threat.

The woman at the automated postal machine was still working on her packages. Three down, by this time. She now had a very irritated-looking person behind her, and I wondered if I looked as he did.

The line behind me now stretched to the door.

The worker searching for the packages decided to wait until all existing postal workers were called in order to find the package. In the meantime, she picked up The Davinci Code. Unfortunately, when she finished the book ten minutes later, not all postal workers had been called yet.

The woman who asked for the many stamps, when finally told what the price was for all the stamps, decided that it was at this point that it was reasonable to pull out the checkbook from the apparent labyrinth that was her purse. A CHECKBOOK?! Oh, the dreaded checkbook. Please, for the love of everything that is good and Stevie, please, everyone, just get check cards.

I smirked. I couldn’t believe that she pulled out the checkbook.

The automated machine customer continued to struggle with the technology that is the touch-screen.

The postal worker with the customer having the delivery confirmation quandary of the decade finally realized that the customer actually didn’t want delivery confirmation after all. The customer made this known by again saying that she might as well go ahead with it, it was for her brother after all. HER BROTHER?!?! She took that much time to determine whether or not she wanted delivery confirmation for a letter sent to her brother?!?!?! I would have had an aneurism if not for the fact that I would be forfeiting my place in line.

The automated machine woman finally left, the checkbook woman was still dotting every “i” and crossing every “t,” and the postal worker for the searching for the missing package booked a flight to Seattle on Orbitz in order to pick it up (unfortunately, she had to wait four days to get the best rate). Luckily, the postal worker handling the confirmation women looked at me and said that she could help me now. I’m not sure what happened, given the fact that the customer was still there. The customer was filling something out, so I just have to assume that she was filling out an application.

Oh, I unnecessarily slam the postal workers. It’s really not their fault, really, especially considering the problem the automated machine customer was having (although, given the fact that the machine does have a terrible interface, maybe they were trying to mirror the regular USPS customer service).

I finished my transaction within a minute, and then on to the next person. I tried to leave the place, but given the size of the line, getting out the door was like playing an odd game of Red Rover.

I could continue on for a little while more, but I have further depressing events in my life, this time not on the job front. I thought I might have found a Hartley’s Tomato Sauce supplier in Irish on Grand. I gave them my number about two weeks ago for them to call me if they could get a case for me. Alas, I have not heard back from them, so I have to assume they are unable. The sadness. The horror. The non-Hartley’s-having-depression.

Oh, yeah. A weblog. I used to have one of those. I’m not sure what happened to it. Maybe it might have suffered from actual employment. Although, using the word “actual” is a little sketchy, given the fact that I’m only technically (two “ly” words in a row just doesn’t work, does it?) a “contract attorney.” For those not in the know (and I certainly wasn’t until I finally started looking for a job), basically means a temp-attorney. Just like temp workers, with the exception of admission to the Bar and scale of pay, temp-attorneys are given monotonous grunt work. To make it worse, the employment is with a high-powered law firm who pays their attorneys about 654 times what they pay us. However, I do take solace in the fact that I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to work for the firm.

Well, I also take solace in the fact that I’m still getting paid reasonably well. Unfortunately, though, it’s only a temp position, so this is no way to make a living. It’s just a way to get by and pay off some credit card bills. The student loans still await.

But hey, yeah, the whole working a monotonous job has basically limited the range of possible thoughts and creativity. As such, even if I have a topic for a weblog, it really just sits on my desktop taunting me. Topics are one thing, writing a full piece is another. For instance, my wife and myself made the mistake of visiting the Mall of America yesterday for our normal Sbarro’s/Panda Express visits (just guess who goes to which). This is a topic I’ve written on a few times in the past, and to my chagrin, the mall was completely packed.

Now, in a normal post, I would rant about this, and about the absolutely freakingly annoying teen girls in front of me at Sbarro’s (and, oh my Bob, were they annoying. I’m a stickler for line protocol, and when someone steps out of line (sometimes literally), I just want to slap them. The girls here, for whatever reason, decided that moving up in line when people in front of them moved up was a silly concept. Instead, they decided it a million times better to stay in their same position and continue gabbing about I don’t know what. Of course, while this would have been thoroughly annoying in itself, I was at the MOA, and a packed one at that. As such, my two annoying teenage females had some help. A father walked up to Sbarro’s with his two kids and instead of standing in line, decided to walk up close to the storefront to survey the merchandise. Yeah, pizza. Hard decision. Must get up very close to determine exactly what Sbarro’s had to offer. And then he just stood there, a foot or so to the side of the girls.

And here’s where (is it against procedure to start a new paragraph in the middle of a parenthesis?) the girls truly abandoned line protocol. Instead of securing their position in line by moving up a bit, or making it clear that they were next, they continued to stand there and gab. WHY WEREN’T THESE GIRLS AT PANDA?!?! The father looked to be a threat to cut in line. I was already waiting in line for way too long (in the sense that there was a line to begin with. I mean, seriously, why was the MOA so busy? As far as I remember, Christmas was last month. Yeah, I know, I know, it’s kind of cold out, but what exactly has the MOA to offer that means the parking lots will be completely full, and the food court packed at 1:00?), and I was actually about to part with my normal passiveness and tell the father to shove off. Well, I was more about to ask the girls if they were planning on continuing to stay in the line, as that would have been more polite, but then the father finally moved and took the spot in line behind me. I was saved. Almost.

The girls still hadn’t moved up, and there was absolutely no one in front of the serving guy. They were next, yet refused to acknowledge that being next meant they had the responsibility of following through in being next. To make matters worse, they were facing more toward me, behind them, than they were toward Sbarro’s. They must have seen the anguish in my face, and one of them finally turned around and ordered. The other, however refrained from ordering. Apparently she wasn’t going to be eating then. Well, that’s fine with me. Anyway, yes Sbarro’s man, a slice of cheese and a couple breadsticks (it’s sad that every time I go to Sbarro’s at the MOA I ponder whether or not I actually have to tell them what I want instead of them just giving it to me).

Thinking that my line protocol worries were over, I started to move over to the next guy to ask for some sauce for the sticks. Sadly, however, the non-ordering female decided that now was the time to order. Since this was a service line, I couldn’t just jump past her, especially since that would mean cutting in between the two females (although, in retrospect, that’s probably what I should have done), and the fact that I still needed my sauce. The girls finally moved over to the register to pay, and waited to do absolutely anything until they were told their totals. Both of them finally pulled their purses off of their shoulders, took a long time in opening them, searched them to find the wallet, opened the wallet, searched for the money inside the standard far-too-large-wallet-slash-checkbook-that-women-tend-to-carry, and finally handed the cashiers their cash (with the extended effort of finding change within their wallets with which to pay with. Seriously, women. Change is meant to sit in a drawer or jar for years, and then cashing in eventually at a bank, it is not meant to be used as currency). Woo-hoo, I’m nearly to the cashier myself!

I really had been deluding myself repeatedly during this whole process, because I had neglected to notice that the girls had not yet grabbed napkins, straws, plasticware, or their drinks. Additionally, I forgot that they had to do the whole payment process thing in reverse.

Nearly in tears, I approached the cashier after the girls left, and made the transaction within seconds. I think he felt for me.

So then I had to find a table in the zoo that was the food court (seriously, “zoo”? Why “zoo”? I don’t think I’ve ever seen a bunch of anything packed together in a zoo. Most often what I see is an empty field, besides which is an informational plaque telling me what I should be seeing if the animal hadn’t done the wise thing and disappear from sight). In a way, it was a good thing that Panda and Sbarro’s are at opposite ends, since that allowed me to walk towards my wife and still look for a table. There was nothing. Absolutely nothing at all.

And then my eyes spied an opening, a table right in the middle of the walkway. Fantastic! I could sit down (how simple my happiness after the horror that was Sbarro’s)! As usual, however, in a food court land, the table was covered in so much food-product that it had to be sandblasted in order to not have to vaccinate oneself before even thinking of sitting down (and how does this happen, one would normally ask. I mean, they give you plates, trays, and napkins. The food itself usually is created in such a way as to not spill. So, how does this happen – again, one would normally ask. Me, I just accept). I used my extra napkins, happy I grabbed extra, to clean off at least the non-sticky substances on top of the table. The sticky stuff, that would just have to stay. There was no moving, after all. And then I proceeded to wait 10 minutes for my wife who, while she did not have a similar experience to the horror that was Sbarro’s, apparently had an extremely long line. Seriously, pizza vs. Chinese food? How does Chinese food win? Really, I’m just glad it does, or else I’d have even more lines at Sbarro’s), but I just don’t have the mindset or patience to write about them. Or, for that matter, about the predictably dirty table that I came upon as the only oasis of the food court.